


Asphyxia

by Provocatrixxx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Breathplay, Edging, F/M, Light BDSM, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Provocatrixxx/pseuds/Provocatrixxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You seem tense, my dear,” he says mildly, sliding one hand up to her neck, resting his fingers over her jugular just to hear the hitch in her breath as her pulse races under his hand. He counts eleven beats before he speaks again, leaning in and purring right into her ear, “would you like me to help you with that?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“What do you propose?” she asks, question ending on an inbreath as he hooks the fingers of his free hand under the laces of her corset and tugs. Mycroft offers her a smile which isn’t comforting at all.</i>
</p><p>Mycroft in a gorgeous suit teasing and being teased by his gorgeous assistant. For five and a half thousand words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asphyxia

**Author's Note:**

> With grateful thanks to [Lestradesexwife](www.archiveofourown.org/users/lestradesexwife) and [Roane](www.archiveofourown.org/users/roane) for the thorough (and also speedy) beta, and the folks of antidiogenes for the wordwars and handholding.
> 
> As ever, everything in here is as safe as I could make it, as sane as possible, and entirely consensual.
> 
> _**Asphyxia, n.** a Cessation of the Pulse throughout the whole Body; which is the highest degree of Swooning and next to Death._

The tell-tale orange glow of streetlights teases through the strip blinds, and Mycroft becomes aware of how late it is, and how long he has been seated at his desk, making phone call after phone call, achieving almost nothing. He is tempted to slam the receiver back down, but catches it at the last minute, breathing in through his teeth as he slides the phone neatly back into its cradle. He can feel the tension sitting in his shoulders, his carefully hidden anger tasting metallic and sticky at the back of his mouth.

“You’ll have to get dressed here, sir,” Anthea says in her carefully neutral tone, drawing the heavy curtains across the windows and securely locking the door.

Mycroft allows himself a moment to massage his temples with the tips of his fingers, letting the frustration of that last long conference call bleed out of him. He watches Anthea out of the corner of his eye as she moves about the room on red-soled stilettos, already perfectly turned out for the evening’s state dinner. She is dressed almost demurely, in a simple black gown with a wide neckline cut to show off her collar bones. It has a concealed split from ankle to mid thigh, and as she strides back over to his desk and settles herself upon it, crossing her legs at the knee, the split falls open to reveal the tiny red roses in the lace of her stocking tops. Mycroft rests his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers to keep from pushing his chair closer and kissing over the tiny bones in her knee.

“I picked out the Boateng for you,” she says, tapping away at her Blackberry, ignoring him utterly “and I recommend the silver cufflinks for this evening.”

“Are we aiming to impress anyone in particular?” Mycroft asks, sliding his chair back and walking over to the cabinet where she has hung the suit, a crisp white shirt, and all the necessary accessories.

He doesn’t expect an answer, but the corner of Anthea’s mouth twitches up in an aborted smile as she slides off the desk into his vacated chair. She takes ownership of the space effortlessly, and Mycroft takes longer than necessary to undo the buttons on his shirt, watching her out of the corner of his eye and admiring how comfortable she is in his chair, how brazenly she relaxes into the heat left by his body. He wants to sink down to the floor between her legs and lick her open until she is desperate and shivering, but the evening’s schedule is too tight for such games.

The tailoring on the Boateng is exquisite, if a little more modern than he prefers, cut to demand attention rather than to enable him to slink through the shadows, as is his usual wont. Anthea watches him strip unashamedly. Her expression closed, but her eyes are piercing and greedy as they roam over his bared torso and thighs. Mycroft feels as though she is sizing him up, and deliberately lengthens his spine, sinking his weight down into his heels. He is by no means as slender as Sherlock or tanned and muscled like the younger men who usually catch Anthea’s eye, but he refuses to be hurried, laying his trousers and shirt out over the back of the leather sofa and letting her watch him move about unclothed.

The suit really is beautiful, slim cut with a narrow lapel and exquisite darts which accentuates and caress his figure. The clean lines beg to be touched, and Mycroft runs his fingers down one sleeve, enjoying the way the cloth is supple and smooth beneath his fingers, before taking up the white shirt from beside it and easing it over his shoulders. It’s new, and the collar and cuffs are slightly stiff about his neck and arms. This is his armor, and he takes his time pulling on each layer, shifting his shoulders to settle everything into place.

Anthea takes the silver cufflinks from their box in his desk and fixes his cuffs for him, turning the silver facings until they sit to her satisfaction. She smoothes his shirt down as though she can’t help herself, tugging his collar until it is perfectly central and smoothing out the slight wrinkles at his waist. He is under no illusion as to who is in control of the evening so far, but he trusts her with every aspect of his life, and preens just a little when her cool fingers brush his heated skin. She’s wearing the heavier scent she uses for the evenings, something sweet and a little bit sharp which seems to be concentrated in the hollows between her collar-bones. Mycroft wants to lean down and press his nose into the curve of her neck, taste the warmth there and kiss her until she grows breathless and tangles her fingers into his hair.

Instead, he walks over to the long mirror, tying his bowtie, and then turning to let Anthea even it out. her short nails blood-red and newly filed, the corners sharp and square. They don’t catch once in the smooth silk as she tightens it just a little at his throat. When he is adorned to her liking, Anthea helps him into the jacket, smoothing it over his back with strong sweeps of her hands, and he wants to groan into her touch where it eases some of the tension from his muscles. He is still tired and a little stiff, but the suit fits like a dream and making him at once slimmer and less hungry-looking. Mycroft straightens out his spine and pushes his shoulders back, and smiles as he takes up his umbrella. Anthea quirks an eyebrow at him when he holds out an arm to her, but humours him regardless, allowing him to escort her down the stairs and out to the waiting car as though they are Edwardian lovers.

She sits close beside him on the leather seat, and the long slit in her skirt falls open again, her bare leg radiating heat where it is pressed against his own. The omnipresent Blackberry is for once tucked away inside her clutch bag. He finds her strangely still and intense without it, her hands clasped together in her lap as though to keep them from twitching against her will. It’s her tell, he thinks, her enforced stillness as a show when a plan doesn’t quite turn out to her liking.

“How soon can we leave tonight?” he asks her, reaching out slowly and tracing a tiny circle with his middle finger on the side of her thinly-stockinged knee.

“Half an hour after the cheese-board ought to be sufficient, sir,” she says, her voice as steady as ever and her breathing determinedly even. Mycroft nods in acknowledgement, tracing a gradually widening spiral which grows to encompass the curve of her knee-cap. 

Anthea turns her head away from him, her cheeks lightly flushed. The dress may have been a deliberate provocation, but she hadn’t counted on the car getting caught in the evening theatre traffic between the office and the venue.

“We seem to have encountered an unpredicted predicament, my dear,” he says, fingers skimming the edges of the split now, the pads of his fingers light and teasing on the smooth curve of her thigh. She is still breathing steadily, ribs expanding and contracting in deliberate rhythm, and Mycroft longs to tug her into his lap, to splay his hands across her sides and feel each intercostal muscle, the gentle waves of her bones beneath her skin. She is warm beneath his fingers, muscles tensing for a moment in indecision before she shifts her weight, opening her thighs a little in invitation.

He draws it out, as though contemplating her offer, trailing his fingers back down to her knee again before allowing them to slide up under the heavy fabric to trace abstract curves and spirals on the inside of her thigh. He touches the lace tops of her stockings, counts the red roses woven into the black lace with his fingers. She shivers when he touches bare skin, tips her head back against the seat and bares her throat to him. Her chest moves up and down against his forearm, her breathing sharp and fast now as he runs a fingernail up the smooth satin of her knickers, tapping out a steady tattoo where she is at her warmest.

“Mycroft,” she breathes, but it’s neither a request nor a warning, merely a statement of fact. She is smooth beneath the satin, slightly slick and desperately warm. He feathers a touch across her folds, spreads her open with two fingers and curls his middle one carefully against her clit. Anthea bites down on her lower lip, breathing hard through her nose, her white teeth sharp against the scarlet lip-stain she wears. She gasps a little when he flicks his finger against her, shifting in her seat to press into his hand.

“Half an hour after the cheese-board is perfectly acceptable,” he decides, drawing his hand back and cleaning his fingers with his tongue.

***

The dinner is a tedious affair, just as Mycroft had predicted, and the room is too small and too hot for his liking. He smiles and charms one visiting dignitary after another, switching between French and Russian and back to English again, managing not to lose too much vocabulary on the way. Anthea sticks close to him, waiting just off his left shoulder and purring quiet, disdainful comments into his ear. She is more than usually sharp this evening, though her calm, serene expression doesn’t falter, and her hands are still where they rest at her sides.

He finds himself seated at the far corner of the table, blessedly far from the guest speakers, with Anthea to his right and the Princess of Liechtenstein - please, call me Theresa - across from him. Mycroft makes a mental note to thank whoever set the table plan, quietly, of course. Theresa is pleasant enough company. She seems equally as bored with the evening as he is, and they share conspiratorial glances when the president’s opening speech sails past the accepted ten minute mark. Mycroft appreciates the space to breathe and drops his facade a little, paying more attention to the way Anthea compulsively straightens her place setting than to whatever long winded joke the president is stumbling through.

Anthea has shifted her chair closer to his and he can feel the heat radiating from her, her scent teasing at his nose. Beneath the heavy table cloth, her leg is pressed almost against his, and when she adjusts her napkin, her fingertips trail lightly across his thighs, raising goosebumps as they go. She ignores him completely, alternately terrifying and charming Theresa’s ginger and rather awkward-looking date. Mycroft is put in mind, once again, of a large cat toying with a mouse. She is far better entertainment than anything the president has to say, and Mycroft smiles to himself as he sips his wine and watches her string the poor boy along.

The saving grace of the evening is that the food is blessedly and unexpectedly excellent. Mycroft talks with Theresa about everything and nothing, savouring the richness of the beef and the sweetness of the vegetables. He ought to refuse the pudding, but a glance down at the far end of the table shows a truly ridiculous stack of cue cards at the President’s elbow, so he accepts the chocolate mousse with a small smile of victory.

The mousse is fluffy and smooth, and Mycroft eats it in tiny spoonfuls, sucking it off the spoon as slowly as he can get away with without sucumbing to indecency. He is sufficiently engrossed that he almost starts when Anthea slides her calf over his, stroking his lower leg with her instep. She is angled away from him slightly, her chin resting on her palm as she pretends to be enthralled by Theresa’s date. He’s a pilot, no, an airline captain. He is twisting the hem of his napkin in his lap as he talks. Mycroft focuses intently on scraping the last of the mousse from its ramekin, sucking the spoon into his mouth as Anthea’s toes slide under the hem of his trousers.

The after dinner speeches are even more mind numbing and long winded that usual, and Mycroft sits in his own personal Hell, unable either to concentrate or truly escape into his thoughts. He leans back slightly in his chair, glancing down to find that Anthea has crossed her legs at the knee. Keeping his face turned towards the speaker and feigning an interested expression, Mycroft slides his hand down beneath the tablecloth and lightly pinches her thigh, strangely proud when Anthea flinches almost imperceptibly, caught off guard. She uncrosses her legs and spreads her thighs beneath the table, covering the movement by grabbing her glass of wine from the table. Under cover of the tablecloth, and with everyone’s attention distracted, Mycroft runs his hand under the slit of her dress, tracing the top of her stocking and then the warm skin above it, careful to keep his shoulder still lest anyone should happen to glance over. He wonders how easy it would be to take her apart right here at the table, sink two fingers deep inside her and stroke until she came. Anthea is so very controlled, but surely even she would make some sound just as she came? Some hitch in her breathing that would give her away. 

Her panties, when he reaches them, are soaked and the satin clings to her when he slides two fingers just inside. Anthea is deliberately slowing her breathing again, straightening out her spine and cradling her wine glass, with her face turned away from him, ostensibly focused on the top table. Her breath catches in her throat when he rests his fingers against the heat of her, and he waits for one heartbeat, two, letting her relax before twisting and sliding two long fingers deep inside her. She is far too controlled to react outwardly, but her fingers go white against her wine glass, and there’s a delightful pink flush working its way up from her chest. He crooks his fingers cruelly, just to feel the way she tightens around him, and presses the heel of his palm against her clit until her hips hitch involuntarily. He could bring her off like this, with just his fingers and the pressure of his palm. But Mycroft has other plans for them both this evening. He drags his fingers out slowly, just to feel her flutter against his sensitive pads.

Theresa catches his eye as he picks up his own wine glass, and he wonders for a second whether she could possibly know. She merely rolls her eyes, slumping her shoulders just a little to indicate her utter boredom, and Mycroft sympathises with a tight smile.

They stay for forty-five minutes after the cheeseboard has gone round, and in the end, it is Anthea who makes their apologies and leads him to their waiting car with an insistent hand in the small of his back.

“You seem a little impatient, Anthea,” he says as she pours him into the car and climbs in behind him, closing the door harder than is strictly necessary. The smile that she gives him is all teeth. There is hardly any traffic between the hotel and his flat, a situation for which Mycroft find himself eminently grateful.

***

Mycroft’s flat is small and utilitarian, devoid of trinkets and the clutter with which people usually litter their living spaces. He’s rarely there, after all, and he has never really understood the sentimental attachment other people have to their possessions. His bedroom is the only room that he bothered to redecorate himself. It is irrational to care about the aesthetics of a room in which he spends most of his time unconscious, but some strange need for sanctuary had assailed him when he had first moved here, and had spent the best part of a weekend fitting the room to his taste. He is particularly fond of the wide oak-framed bed, clothed in a rich blue, and reflected by the full-length mirrors which constitute the doors of his wardrobe, off to the side.

Anthea follows him and drops her clutch bag onto the bed, stepping out of her heels with a soft sigh of relief. It takes her a moment to put her feet flat on the ground, and if Mycroft were a better man he would sit her down on the bed and massage the tension from her feet and calves until she was boneless and purring.

His suit is considerably rumpled, now, creased from wear and too many hours sitting in uncomfortable chairs. Mycroft peels his jacket off slowly, watching Anthea in the mirror as she rubs her hands over the arches of her feet. She pulls the pins from her hair as she goes, shaking it loose until it tumbles about her head, the ends flicked out at her shoulders.

“Would you be so kind as to help me out of my dress?” she asks him, playing the words around on her tongue so they come out as smooth as silk. She pads silently across the carpet, stopping in front of him so that she is facing the mirror, presenting him with her back. The dress dips a little in the back, treating him to teasing glimpses of the valley between her shoulder blades, and Mycroft allows himself to lean in and press the softest whisper of a kiss to the back of her neck.

He eases the zip down slowly, parting the smooth fabric to reveal a corset that matches the lace tops of Anthea’s stockings. It is a flimsy, largely insubstantial little thing, designed more for show that to create any real definition, but the cord lacing it together is strong, and the stays are in all the right places. Mycroft lets the dress pool at her feet and splays his hands across either side of her waist, glancing at their reflection in the mirror. Anthea is properly flushed now, her pupils huge and her breathing sharp. Her ribs expand and contract beneath the lace, and Mycroft moves his hands until he can settle his palms over them and feel every breath. He wants to own and control every part of her, the need to possess her utterly rising sharp and painful in his own ribcage as follows the path of the air through her lungs in his mind.

“You seem tense, my dear,” he says mildly, sliding one hand up to her neck, resting his fingers over her jugular just to hear the hitch in her breath as her pulse races under his hand. He counts eleven beats before he speaks again, leaning in and purring right into her ear, “would you like me to help you with that?”

“What do you propose?” she asks, question ending on an inbreath as he hooks the fingers of his free hand under the laces of her corset and tugs. Mycroft offers her a smile which isn’t comforting at all.

She fits into his hands as though she was designed for him, the curve of her waist perfect under his palms, muscles shifting and tensing as she fights for air. She is so much warmer than him, and he focuses on the strong beat of her pulse just beneath her skin, allowing it to centre him. Mycroft eases her legs apart gently, sliding his hand into the sodden satin of her knickers and pressing two fingers inside her easily. Anthea arches her back on a soft moan, rocking her hips into him, trying to ride his hand even as her tiny pants for air quicken. It won’t take long like this, with her oxygen depleting and every sensation magnified infinitely.

“Ah ah ah,” he scolds gently, pulling his hand away before she gets too close and drinking in her frustrated groan. His fingers are slick with her and he sucks on them slowly, meeting her gaze in the mirror and savouring the bitter-sharp tang of her on his tongue. He could drown in her, he thinks, close his eyes and get lost forever in the way her pulse races ahead of his own. Anthea goes limp against him, taking sharp, gasping little breaths, half-way to undone already. Mycroft releases his hold on the laces, holding her upright as she takes deep, even breaths, ribs expanding and contracting beneath his hand. He intends to have her in ruins by the time he’s done.

He waits until she is standing unsupported again before wrapping the tails of the corset laces tightly about his fist. Anthea watches him in the mirror, trying and utterly failing to compose herself, her mouth slightly open and her pupils huge. She gasps when he tightens the corset around her again, eyes going wide as it closes around her ribs, forcing the air from her. He slides his free hand down again, petting lightly over her panties this time, a soft pattern of beats for five seconds, ten, watching Anthea’s face in the mirror all the while. Her back is arched beneath his fist, and her hips rock forwards into his hand, striving for release even as she gasps. He takes her right up to the edge before he releases his hold on the cord and Anthea is able to draw a desperate, shuddering breath.

Mycroft gives her a moment to recover, opening the top few buttons on his shirt and consciously relaxing his shoulders, opening his stance. His cock is throbbing insistently against the zip of his dress trousers, but Mycroft is nothing if not disciplined, and Anthea is so deliciously dishevelled now, her hips rocking into nothingness and her eyes closed. He tightens the laces on Anthea’s corset again, sliding his fingers back into her panties and rolling her clit between his finger and thumb, pushing her as far as he dares. By the time he releases her, Anthea is shaking, and Mycroft’s fingers are soaked.

“This won’t do at all,” Mycroft tells her, stepping back and running his gaze over her reflection. Anthea is barely standing now, her breath coming in tight little gasps, and her eyes barely focused on him. She whines when his hands leave her skin.

“Your underwear is entirely unworkable,” he informs her, “allow me to help you out of them.” Anthea’s hands go to her thighs, fighting with the catches for her stockings, but Mycroft bats them away gently, sinking to his knees in front of her. His trousers are uncomfortably tight now, and he can smell Anthea, see where the satin has darker patches, how it clings to her. Mycroft presses the heel of his palm against his cock, seeking temporary relief, and presses a soft kiss to the top of her thigh, breathing her in for a moment.

He unfastens the clips on Anthea’s suspenders with relative ease, sliding the soaked scrap of satin down her thighs and over her knees before stopping to do the clips back up again. Anthea kicks her knickers away impatiently, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, though she is still aware enough not to try to touch herself. Or him. She is incredibly warm here, and he leans in to press a kiss over her neat triangle of pubic hair, light and teasing. He has been so very patient for so very long and Anthea’s thighs are trembling with want.

He loves taking Anthea apart with his mouth. She groans low in her throat when he flicks his tongue against her clit, her hips bucking before he gets a proper grip on them, digging his fingers into her flesh to keep her still. She is so wet and hot, her skin trembling against his tongue and when she buries a hand in his hair, urging him in closer, he obliges her with long, steady licks. She is sharp and slightly bitter, and Mycroft presses in close, closing his eyes to better feel every tremor, losing himself in the sensation of having her above and around him, utterly focused on him alone.

She is shaking within minutes, her hand fisted in his hair, tight enough to hurt as she urges him on and on. The sharp flicker of pain makes him groan, and he sucks on her clit, thrusts two fingers deep inside her and strokes until she’s crying out and coming apart all around him, knees going out from under her. Mycroft catches her as best he can, pulling her down to the floor and laying her out on her back in the thick carpet.

Anthea’s eyes are still closed and her face is flushed, shiny hair in a halo of disarray about her head, all pretense of togetherness tossed away. She groans when he crawls back between her legs, but spreads her thighs willingly, and he laps at her lazily, stiffening his tongue and pressing it into her, tasting each tremor. They’re far from done, and Anthea is in ruins already, her hand shaking and her grip weak when she slides her fingers back into his hair.

He takes his time, lapping her clean and then exploring lazily with his tongue, sliding his arms under her thighs to hold her open. He could stay here for hours, he’s sure, drinking in her soft noises and the way her muscles flutter and tremble around him. The corset is still tight around her ribs and stomach, making her fast little pants for breath all the more exaggerated. He loves seeing her like this, completely undone and coming apart at the seams, her fingers tensing and relaxing in his hair whenever his tongue does something to please her. Her second orgasm is slower and more powerful, her whole body arching off the floor for him as she comes and comes around his tongue.

His suit is creased beyond all redemption now, and Mycroft strips out of it methodically, balling the shirt up for laundry and stepping gratefully from the confines of his suit trousers. His cock is harder than it has been in weeks, and the anticipation of orgasm sits sharp and sweet in the base of his spine. A part of him wants to tug Anthea onto her knees and fuck her there on the floor beside the mirror, but she is so beautifully relaxed and pliant, so different from her usual self, that Mycroft wants to keep her that way for as long as possible.

Anthea, however, seems to be possessed of more resilience than even he had given her credit for. Her legs tremble as she climbs to her feet, but she walks surprisingly steadily over to the bed, pulling her corset undone as she goes. She leaves her stockings and suspenders in place, and Mycroft finds himself enthralled by the way the black straps emphasise her toned arse and thighs. She is firm and slightly rounded, and far stronger and tougher than she pretends to be. He appreciates her musculature openly as she tilts her head, offering an invitation as she slides one knee up onto the bed.

“I think I’d like to ride you now,” she tells him, glancing back over her shoulder once more before crawling across the bedcovers and piling his pillows against the headboard. There is a slight tremor in her hands still, but she has pulled her air of collected calm back around herself, as though she has regained her balance. She is aloof like this, untouchable, and Mycroft wants to break her open again, to bring her off again and again until she is utterly broken and shaking, and he can see every part of her.

He goes to her and allows her to arrange him on the bed, half-sitting with his back propped up against the many pillows and his aching cock wrapped in cool latex. It does nothing to dull the heat of her as she grips his shoulders and sinks down onto him, her head tipping back slightly, exposing the long line of her throat. She is slick and tight, and Mycroft can’t keep back his moan as she sinks down, her thighs gripping him tightly, and her sharp fingernails digging into the muscles of his shoulders. Anthea breathes perfection, and the angle is perfect, leading Mycroft to bite down into his lower lip as she bucks her hips, tightening a little around his cock as she moves. She sets up a brutally efficient rhythm, her back arching as she fucks him roughly, pressing down on his shoulders as though to keep him exactly where she needs him. It is selfish and efficient, and Mycroft watches her take her pleasure from him, greedy and slightly desperate.

When her hand slides down to circle her own clit, he cages her wrist and pulls her hand into the small of her back.

“You wanted to ride me,” he says, and his voice tastes of peat-whiskey, rough and smoky on the consonants, “you can come from this alone.”

He feels her thighs flex around him, a soft sound midway between a growl and a groan escaping her as she tugs half-heartedly against his grip. She could break it, if she wanted to, but it would mean losing, and neither of them is given to surrender. They are a matched set, as clever and stubborn as each other, and Anthea’s eyes turn to slits before she makes up her mind.

The rhythm she sets is different this time, faster and more brutal, as though she means to punish him as she steals her pleasure. She is slick with sweat, and flushed pink under the bedroom lights, her pulse racing under his fingertips. Mycroft slides his free hand up her side, spanning his fingers across her ribs and feeling each shuddering breath as she drives herself higher and higher. The angle she has now is perfect for him, and he closes his eyes to better control his orgasm, feeling her stockinged toes clench and unclench against his knees.

Anthea shakes as she comes, her moan choked off by stuttering breaths that seem forced from her, her ribcage fluttering like a bird beneath his hand. Her hips rock into him again and again and Mycroft lets go of her wrist to clutch at her hips, keeping the rhythm going even as she shivers, letting the force of her orgasm pull him over the edge. Mycroft closes his eyes as he comes, his spine turning to liquid fire and his world falling away until he is nothing and everything all at once.

***

They lie intertwined for an age, Anthea curled onto his chest, her hair soft at his shoulder, and Mycroft’s hands spanning her back, as though they can coalesce and melt into a single being. It takes a while for them to reconstitute themselves as separate bodies, and somehow it is like learning to breathe all over again. Anthea’s body is soft and pliant, and she curls into herself when he lays her down on the clean side of the bed, smoothing her hair out for her and tucking it away from her face. She is different like this, smudged at the edges as though she is merely trying herself on for size and isn’t yet sure of the fit.

Mycroft leaves her on the bed, trailing his hand down her leg as he slides off the bed. The light in his bathroom feels unnecessarily harsh, and Mycroft avoids his own reflection in the mirror, sorting himself out quickly. He turns the heat in the house up a notch and collects a throw blanket before he turns out the light.

When he returns to the bedroom, Anthea has stripped the covers off the mattress and seated herself at the very edge of the bed, unhooking the clasps from her stockings. She smiles a little when he kneels at her feet and peels the nylon down her legs, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of each knee as he does so. Her make-up is still smudged and without her aura of control properly back in place, Anthea looks younger and slightly vulnerable. He wants to pull her into his arms and keep her safe, but she wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, and any lingering softness to her is just an illusion.

“Stay here tonight,” he says softly, and smiles when she nods and swings her legs back up onto the bed.

There is ample space for them to sleep without touching, even with only a throw blanket for cover. Anthea sets her back to him, curling in on herself just a little, and the blanket settles into the curve of her hips. Mycroft wants to bury his nose in the warmth at the nape of her neck and sleep wrapped in the scent of her. He wants to steal her away and keep her smudged and imperfect, file off her sharp edges with his fingers and his tongue. It is impossible, of course, but Mycroft is so tired and the fantasy so very tempting. He settles for resting his fingertips over the wings of her ribcage, letting the steady expansion and contraction lull him to sleep.

She will be gone when he wakes, stealing herself away in perfect silence, and leaving no memory of her ever having been there. With his fingers on her skin, Mycroft closes his eyes and allows himself to imagine they are lovers.


End file.
